blared his name. His aircraft was ready.
Max in tow, Mauser crossed the administration building’s concourse and exited via a small door through which, Joe noted, Cogswell and his men had disappeared earlier. Rank hath its privileges, he reminded himself; doubtless Cogswell had phoned ahead and someone had been bumped off the reservation lists in his favor.
They exited into bright sunlight and followed a concrete walkway to the hanger area, where Mauser quickly spotted what had to be the aircraft assigned him—a small two-seater. He crossed the tarmac, hailed an attendant, and quickly took care of the necessary formalities of handing over his reservation slip and identifying himself.
As he and Max climbed into the cockpit of the single-engine mini-jet, Joe chuckled inwardly at how surprised old Stonewall would be to know just what Joe Mauser was looking for on this flight. Even greater would be his surprise when he was presented, so to speak, with the results of Mauser’s research.
CHAPTER FOUR
The mini-jet banked sharply as it began its descent to the airfield below. Joe Mauser’s face was thoughtful. He had requested a slow, wide-winged aircraft, but the clerk hadn’t been able to do much for him. The others hiring rental craft had also been interested in hoverability and low speed, albeit for reasons different than Mauser’s. He’d had to settle for what was available.
Max, seated next to him, gulped, “Hey, Captain, take it easy.”
Mauser looked at him.
“I ain’t never been up in anything this small before.”
“Oh,” Mauser grunted. He leveled out and continued the descent, less steeply now. “When we get around to it, we’ll have to check you out on flying, Max.”
His batman was taken aback. “You mean me? A pilot?”
Mauser said, “One of the things you want to learn early in the game, Max, is that the mercenary’s life isn’t exactly as portrayed on the telly screens. What the fracas buff mainly sees is the combat, and not very much of that, since most combat is on the drab and colorless side. Most of your time is spent crouched in some hole, or face down behind whatever cover you can find. The lens concentrates on the hand-to-hand stuff. The buff isn’t interested in such matters as artillery laying down a barrage. He’s not even interested in a cavalry squadron making a sweep around a flank to execute some bit of strategy that might decide the fracas. He wants action and blood.”
Max, holding to a grab-bar as the small aircraft dropped, managed to get out, “I don’t think I know what you’re talking about, sir.”
Mauser’s hands moved over the controls expertly, straightening the craft for the runway rising to meet them. He had already received his landing instructions from the control tower.
He said, “The more you know about subjects seemingly remote from your trade, Max, the better off you’ll be. Any medical knowledge that you might have, for instance, is priceless. It won’t show on the telly screen, but it sure as hell helps for you to be as near an M.D. as you can make yourself. It also helps to be as good a swimmer as you can, as good a horseman, as competent a mountain climber.
“You’ve got to be a survival expert who can find a meal in a swamp, a desert, a forest, or on top of a seemingly barren mountain. And you want to be a mechanical wizard, capable of repairing not only every weapon allowable under the Universal Disarmament Pact, but any other gadget that might be used in war—from a telegraph to a mechanical semaphore. You even want to be a better ditch digger than the most competent Low-Lower who ever spent his life making with a shovel. ”
Max was staring at him. “Ditch digger? Who wants to be a ditch digger? I didn’t cross categories to become any ditch digger!”
Mauser interrupted him mildly. “We call them trenches, Max. And the sooner you learn to burrow like a mole, the better off you’ll be, particularly when they ring mortars in on you.”
“Oh,” Max said weakly. “Yeah, sure.”
“And you better learn to climb trees faster than any lumberjack, and to shore up a shaft better than any miner.” The two braced themselves as the small craft jolted, its tires squealing as they touched the runway. “Over the years, such skills are more important than being a crack shot, or an expert with a knife in close personal combat. The fact of the matter is, you might go through a half-dozen standard fracases and never get into personal combat, but I’ve never been in one that didn’t involve digging entrenchments.” Mauser concentrated for a moment on braking the mini-jet.
“Do you understand what I’m saying? That being a mercenary has very little to do with what you see on telly? The sooner you realize that, the better your chances of surviving.”
“Well, yeah,” Max said doubtfully. “But what good’s flying? Nobody’s allowed to use aircraft in action, Captain. Even I know that.”
Mauser was taxiing toward the hangers.
“Max, even as a Rank Private you’ve got to stack the cards in your favor—any way you can! When you’re in there, if you’ve managed to swing percentages your way just one percent—just one percent, Max—it might be the difference between copping the final one and surviving.
“Every old pro who’s going to be in this fracas has been studying the terrain, Max. Stonewall Cogswell has fought this reservation three times that I know of, and probably more. But where is he, right this minute? He and his whole field staff are up in a transport going over the whole reservation, again and again. Why? Because possibly he’s forgotten the exact layout, although that’s not very likely with the marshal. But maybe, since he fought this reservation last, a new road has been cut from one point to another. Possibly the streams are so high this month that fords he’s used before can’t be utilized, or maybe the streams are so low that new fords are practical. Maybe a forest fire has leveled some clumps of trees that were formerly suitable for gun emplacements. Maybe a lot of things, Max, and Stonewall Cogswell is going to have every bit of information he can cram in, before the fracas proper.”
“Zen!” Max muttered. “I was thinking Military was one category where education didn’t make much difference. Way you sound, Captain, you gotta be like an Education Category professor in every field there is before you make even Rank Sergeant.”
They came to a halt before the hangers, and Mauser cut the exchange short. He turned the craft over to the field’s employees, gathered up the charts and the papers on which he’d scribbled notes. His face was thoughtful. The morning had been profitable, but he wanted to take at least one more flight over the reservation. What he had been telling Max was all too true. You became a real pro, an old pro, by taking infinite pains with every detail.
But for Mauser it was more than just the old survival bit, this time. This was his big fling.
He was walking toward the administration building to wind up his account for the mini-jet’s rental when a male voice behind him whined, “Captain Mauser, could I have your autograph?”
He began to turn, wearily bringing a smile to his face for the sake of the fracas buff, fumbling in his jerkin pocket for a stylus.
But then the man laughed.
It was Freddy Soligen. Back in the shadow of one of the hangers Mauser could see the little man’s crew, taking advantage of the shade and relaxing between interviews of the notables that were coming and going.
Mauser
